Touch
by monsley
Summary: The intensity of certain activities depends on the intensity of the perpetrators. Lobsang always hopes he'll be able to trap Susan within a timeless nook. Minor spoilers for Thief of Time


**Title:** Touch

**Fandom:** Discworld

**Characters:** Susan Sto Helit/Lobsang Ludd

**Prompt:** 038. Touch (fanfic100. Count: 1286

**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary:** The intensity of sex depends on the intensity of the perpetrators.

His touch is years coursing through her body. Lifetimes dance on her skin as he tenderly traces paths down her back, and through his fingertips she is everything and everywhere and _now_. His hand grabs hers, her fingers grasp his and she feels it all—the sharp stab of pain from a proud "_don't go_", the trail of a happy tear down somebody's cheek, the rush of adrenalin after a scream, a crackle of fire and the freshness of sliding into a newly-made bed—nows he's been picking up here and there, moments which get caught in his dark blue aura as a leaf might get caught on somebody else's hair.

His breath catches in his throat as she cuts out the tenderness and her hands rake red marks down his back. He finally manages to unfasten the last bit of fucking sensible teacher clothes she's wearing, and he can't help but let those nows go all over her, flooding with time the small cubicle they're locked in. She smiles and it isn't her smile, it's her first baby smile and the last smile she'll smile before she dies, if she ever does, and other people's smiles, and all the women in the world.

She pulls at his hair and nibbles on his earlobe and laughs, and now it's Susan again, only Susan and miles of smooth skin that he needs to kiss and bite and redden because he can't be sure, he can't be sure she is really Susan and she is really in his arms and this is happening now and she is his and wants to be his and is wrapping her legs around his waist. She grabs his face and kisses him wildly, with abandon, holding tightly onto her neck as he fumbles with his black robes and eventually forces them a couple of centuries backwards with a snap of the fingers. She had thrown a fit when he'd done it to her. Admittedly, her black dress had been ruined when they'd fished it out of the ocean he'd sent it to.

But he can't really focus on thinking right now, he's just slammed Susan's back onto the wall and her skirts are in a jumbled mess around her waist and her breasts are delicious in his mouth. Her collarbone is the next victim of his teeth, and he can't help but laugh when she tires of his pelvic fumbling and guides him in with the most adorable schoolteacher expression on her face. He's pounding into her and she's holding tight onto him and marking the pace with her hips and her hair is absolutely everywhere, and it's a credit to humanity's adaptability that they don't even blink when snow starts falling around them, as Lobsang's grip on this moment in time starts slipping and the cubicle starts believing itself to be some thousands of years older.

Susan is moaning and he is moaning her name and grabbing her tight and trying to gather enough coherence to mumble _I love you_ even once, and there is snow everywhere and for some reason warm sand under his feet and she loses it and lets out a low, guttural groan that becomes a scream, and he is almost there and her moist lips and sharp teeth on his neck are too much and he finally can hoarsely scream _I love you_ before slowly collapsing onto his knees.

When he comes to, crumpled against the wall of the diminutive cubicle, it takes him a couple of seconds to believe that she's still there, in his arms, drenched in sweat and smiling, exhausted, and caressing his thigh with her fingertips. He lazily lifts one hand to try and put her hair back in a semblance of order, knowing full well he won't manage to, taking a luxurious amount of time with each curl. She begins tickling him and he retaliates with small discharges of time behind her knees, where he knows she's most ticklish. They sit together, a mess of limbs slowly cooling down.

At length her back stiffens, and he knows that stiffening. It's time for her to go back to work and leave the timeless nook he always hopes he'll be able to trap her in. Susan stands slowly and starts arranging her clothes—no matter how much he looks he'll never learn how all the corsetry is supposed to work, so he tries to help by picking up a time when her clothes were in place and superposing both timelines. She's all dressed now, and her hair has even let itself be persuaded into a high bun. She leans in to kiss him tenderly, capturing his lower lip between her teeth for a second, and then turns and walks out.

Her scent lingers on, and he sits in there for a while, trying to breathe it all in. Eventually he'll have to leave, not because he cares about time but because last time he'd lounged about in the nude after finding a moment of intimacy with Susan the Death of Rats somehow found the place and started annoying him. He stands up, sighs and looks around purposefully, hands on hips.

"Now, _when the hell _did I send my robes?"


End file.
